


Hold Back All My Dark

by thelittlelioness



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Depression, Drugs, Eating Disorders, M/M, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlelioness/pseuds/thelittlelioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe mixing mediums of escape isn't such a fantastic idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Back All My Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This fic originated after I read a fic on tumblr called Mangiare by eatwritesleepme, submitted to tumblr user percico. I definitely recommend that one.
> 
> Title is taken from a line in the song Jesus Christ by Brand New. Listen to it; it's good.

Bony.

Scrawny.

Small.

By design, yes. Nico knows what he was doing.

It’s not like he needs bulk, anyway. Any danger he secures himself can be cured with a few undead skeletons. Swordwork isn't necessary when Nico is a necromancer.

He never intended for it to be this way, really. Starvation and malnutrition isn’t really an optional thing when you’re on the run without any money or a roof over your head. So this story starts out as a side effect to Nico’s already fucked-up life.

From there it blossoms.

No. Blossomed implies goodness. This is the antithesis of good.

Correction: from there it spreads.

Like a virus, because that’s what it is. A virus of the mind, feeding on loneliness, insecurity, and hopelessness. Incurable: you can treat the symptoms, but not the root cause.

When everyone claims that Nico is skinny because he’s depressed, they don’t know how close to the truth they are. Except, they all assume he doesn’t eat because he doesn’t care to. Truth is, he doesn’t eat because he cares too much.

A side note on caring too much: it’s a dangerous thing. For mortals, too, but especially for demigods. The Fates can snap your cord at any moment. Or your friends’, or your siblings’, or even your mortal family’s.

A diagnosis: Depression, because apparently trying to resurrect his dead sister on multiple occasions is A Very Concerning Thing. Depression, because everyone who he’s ever loved is either dead or doesn’t give a fuck. Anxiety, because who will be next, the few people he cares about? Anxiety, because his nightmares often effloresce into panic attacks.

He relives those moments. Sometimes it’s his mom’s death. Other times it’s Bianca’s, that one unfortunate conversation with Percy years ago. They come back to haunt him, a bitter irony when taking into consideration his godly parentage.

In a weird, sick way, purging food from his life gives Nico the strength that nourishment lends to others.

Bonier.

Scrawnier.

Smaller.

One day, Percy offhandedly inquires as to how Nico manages to be a powerful demigod when his ankles are the size of Percy’s wrists. Nico gets up and leaves.

There isn’t a scale tucked away in the Hades cabin. Nico doesn’t keep old clothes to track the pounds that are shadow-traveling away. His disease isn’t traditional, but Nico’s never been a traditional person.

It isn’t about the outside. It’s about the inside. The actions are a means to an end, not a method to “look pretty.” He wants to be dead but alive at the same time. Unlike most people on this planet, death is a reality for him, not a mystery. Honestly, death would be a punishment. Nico lives in limbo—he’s there, with a heartbeat and everything, but he’s not, really.

He plays a drinking game with spirits smuggled from Mr. D using a little trick to journey through the dark gloom that leaks around the edges of the happy times.

Born in a different century. Drink.

Mother. Drink.

Bianca. Drink.

Hades. Drink.

Percy fucking Jackson. Drink. Drink again. Once more for good measure, and another dedicated to Annabeth “Perfect” Chase.

Indeed, he eats a little, enough to get by. Remember, he doesn’t actually want to die.

And that’s what hooks him on the pills.

Alcohol is a depressant: it slows the heartbeat, it eases the mind. It numbs the pain.

The pills erase the pain.

And suddenly he’s flying, soaring high like a mystic during meditation. The sky is a tye-dye blend of Percy’s favorite blues, the wind envelops him like a strong hug. Like one of Mrs. Jackson’s hugs, actually.

It’s clear where his affections lie. He can’t quite tell if the music playing in the background is heavy metal or classical, but that doesn’t really matter. The tune is vaguely familiar in the way that Percy’s voice is.

The first night of the pills, he dreams easily, and not a demigod dream either. He can’t remember the details upon awakening, but he swears up and down Percy’s eyes featured prominently in it.

The steadfast ache of his heart returns. He drains the heavy glass bottle, and then he lays there. Steady, now, he listens to his slowing pulse.

Maybe mixing mediums of escape isn’t such a fantastic idea.

It’s Percy who finds him, naturally. Of fucking course. The hero is “concerned”; Nico laughs in his face. “You don’t care about me, so stop fucking pretending to,” he spits at Percy with as much venom in his voice as he can muster, although he can’t remove his dark eyes from the green ones an inch away. “Fuck off,” he adds for clarification.

Rock. Bottom.

Percy leaves, frustrated, unsure if he should even make the effort anymore. But Percy can’t get Nico’s eyes out of his mind. Symmetry is a peculiar thing. Aphrodite, evidently, has a sense of humor. The grey eyes have left, but the dark brown ones stay.

Meanwhile, Nico wants to bleach his mind of Percy Jackson.

The next day, Percy returns to find an unconscious Nico and a half-empty bottle of Clorox.

Will Solace and all them in the Apollo cabin are able to patch things up. That’s one of the advantages of godly medicine.

It’s not his time yet.

When Nico stumbles into the land of the walking again (“Four days. We were worried you wouldn’t make it.”) the first thing he sees is the thing that started this in the first place: a plate of food. Again, symmetry.

When he sees, he is about to feed it to the trash like Percy no doubt stuffed the toilet with his pills. A burger, Camp Half-Blood style. A chocolate-chip cookie. A Coca-Cola, name brand, not diet. Most everyone would see this meal as traditional American cuisine, but not Nico. Never Nico. Nico sees.

Percy. Of course.

He takes a bite. And another one. When the all of it is gone, Nico feels closer to death than he’s ever been, comatose included. But it’s a start.

And so are those lips on his cheek, those green green eyes piercing his own.

 

 


End file.
